


the responsibility of taking care or control

by Ladoga



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Discipline, Child Abuse, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Fëanor is not an excellent parent, Gen, Maedhros is an excellent brother, Punishment, Whipping, formality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 13:48:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12749577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladoga/pseuds/Ladoga
Summary: "Then he stands up, and finds supplies to sweep up the broken pieces, and rights the pedestal. The floor looks undamaged, at least. And he goes to find their father."





	the responsibility of taking care or control

**Author's Note:**

> -My knowledge of the Silmarillion consists of fanfiction, wiki articles, parts of a summary, asking people things/people telling me things, and more fanfiction.
> 
> -This is an AU. It is not a general character interpretation/opinion nor statement thereof.
> 
> -If anyone knows already-used tags for the last two here please totally tell me, I went tag searching and I'm pretty sure there should be stuff but I have not found it.

Maitimo is reading in his room when the servant knocks. “Your grace, your brothers-” And he comes running. (‘Brothers’ is usually Ambarussa, even before the servant gets further. The rest of his brothers tend to more individual trouble, most of the time.) (He does not actually run; that is conspicuous, risks him getting stopped short too early. But he walks very quickly.)

It is Ambarussa, both of them on the floor in one of the guest rooms, crying next to broken ceramic and glass. (They shrink somewhat, hearing someone coming, relax some when they can see him through the door. He wants to hug them even before he can. They’re too  _ young _ …) Quick words with the servants, the one who’d brought him and the one still there -  _ I’ll tell our father, no need to disturb him _ \- and then he can, down on the floor with them and a monogrammed handkerchief and both of them in his arms at the same time. He checks them for cuts - nothing, he praises them for being careful - nudges them farther from the source of such, dispenses hugs and murmured reassurances before trying to get the story. 

It is not a very complex story (that’s something - Tyelcormo’s, not to mention Caranthir’s, have managed to get quite involved more than a time). A craftswoman’s child they’d played with had told them about a trick to locks. They’d tried it on three different doors before finding one that worked, and they’d - about fallen over each other in excitement, he can imagine, and then ended up falling over, well, not each other (the stone pedestal that must have held the vase lies on the floor as well. He’ll need to check it for chipping). 

_ -we’re sorry we didn’t  _ mean  _ to _ \- - _ will father be very angry- _ . He pulls out another handkerchief, and tells them that he knows they did not mean to, and he is very impressed by their skills, and perhaps next time they want to try they could pick the locks in  _ his  _ guestroom, which he does not use so often, or ask Tyelcormo who is more rarely in his rooms himself and does not tend to decorate with breakables. And he will talk to their father, and he will make sure the doors they should maybe not go alone in are secured better, in case they forget. And he smiles at them and tells them how he loves them and hugs them again, together and each one, and when they are not crying or clinging to him anymore sends them out to play in the yard. (Some further distance is better. In case).

Then he stands up, and finds supplies to sweep up the broken pieces, and rights the pedestal (it did chip. He arranges for the servants to have it carried out, perhaps replaced). The floor looks undamaged, at least. And he goes to find their father.

 

The crown prince is in his study. That is for the better. He is more difficult to predict when he is in the forge. Maitimo stops outside the door, listens for the rhythm of movements inside, the scratch of a pen, a chair against the floor, footsteps. He has learned them over the years, reads them like Tyelcormo reads flocks of birds and movements in grass, like Macalaure reads song and music even in the air. Sometimes his father is in especially good spirits, would not need too much care in approaching him not to place overmuch blame on his youngest sons. Might himself commend their adventure of spirit, their skill. This is not that day. Sometimes he is impatient utterly - would call them here no matter what Maitimo might try to say. That might be worth delaying, then, perhaps finding something from a distance that would cheer him, even with the risk delay itself is. It is, thanks be, not such a day. 

And this is what is most frequent. He is impatient but not overmuch. He will want the situation dealt with, he will not overlook it but will want it concluded. He may - take the conclusion underhand, if it is offered well.

Maitimo knocks and waits till he is told to enter.

“I heard an unexpected sound, some time ago.” The crown prince is sitting at his desk. Maitimo lowers his eyes. (On some days, he would have waited for Maitimo to begin to say it.)

“Yes sir.” He lets the silence stay a few moments. “I did not see to it that the door of the second emerald room was properly secured, sir. A vase is broken, and its pedestal needs replacement. I was negligent in my charge, sir. I offer my apology.” His charge, of course, is his brothers, as it has been for all their years. He is the eldest-born, he has reminded them, when they have argued, sometimes, with this part of that charge. It is his to do. And one does not  _ lie _ , to their father. It is not a lie. He keeps his gaze down and lets silence fall again.

“Come here.” He goes. His father has stood, must be looking at him. “It was Ambarussa?”  _ I did not see to the door. I was negligent _ . That would be what he might say, some other days. He does not need to look at his father to read him.  

“Yes, sir.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes, sir.” He knows his father, his cares and his moods. Sometimes it is enough. Sometimes it is not.  _ You would have done the same _ , he thinks.  _ They are so very like you _ . That is not something to say. That his sons will be like him is Fëanor’s pride, and it is his fear. It is rarely wise, to make his father afraid.

“And you have corrected them?” He cannot breathe outloud with relief. His father may prefer his forge and his study to company, but he is not unobservant. 

“Yes, sir. They know to be more careful, sir. I offer my apologies for being late with it, sir.” He does not repeat what he’d already said. It is not the day for it.

“The closet is to your right, Nelyafinwë.” He does not exhale, again. He walks over. Unlatches carefully carved doors and looks at wood and leather.

Sometimes, he is to go to his father’s desk without delay. His father does selection himself, then. But often this is what he prefers - a chance for his sons to consider their own misbehavior, and its severity. To make an appropriate selection. Maitimo is good at this. Better than his brothers even when he did not have years to advantage him. (Tyelkormo, he’d had mentioned to him, has taken to selecting at random, or else finding the worst thing every time, or else inverting that on severity. Is considering refusing utterly, though that Maitimo thinks he might still argue him around on.) This is not the time to think on that. Black and silver near the middle right catches his eye. He takes it in his hands.

“Is this new, sir?” 

“Observant, Nelyafinwë.” His father is gratified, when his work is taken note of. That is an easy decision, then. 

“It is as fine as all your work, sir.” He does not need to see raised eyebrows. But it is not anger. Maitimo returns to where his father stands, offers the plaited strap. “I offer my apology for my negligence, sir.” His father had cleared the desk while he was not near it. He notices it from the corner of his eye, and does not move.

“The desk is to your left.” It is. He shifts his robes, slips out of underthings. Crosses his arms on the desk and takes position, familiar as this room. Fëanáro does not say anything else to him. There is not very long left to wait.

 

He is good at this. That is a reason he does not give his brothers, in those words, because they would not like it. But it is true. He reads their father well, knows how to speak to him. What to say and what not to say, when to speak and when to be silent. Footsteps, and carriage he can only half see, and brief sentences. 

And - this, he is also good at. He can keep still, mostly, and not so stubbornly silent that his father finds it defiance, and not so un-quiet that his father finds it an irritation. And he can fold his hands over polished woodgrain, and (and - pain. That, he can also do). 

His father’s craftsmanship is indeed very fine. He flinches from it, presses his head harder into his arms. Keeps a count in his head - his father asks, sometimes. 

On two he clenches his hands, hard, in the sleeves of his robe. On four he bits his lip. On seven his eyes are blurring. (He can’t actually remember what the vase looked like, not well. He wonders if his father can.)

On nine there are not anymore after. “Your apology is accepted.” And he - needs a moment, still, takes it before replaying that in his head, before getting up after. Fixes his clothing. 

“Thank you, sir.” He’d used up all his handkerchiefs - would not take one out in front of his father, regardless. His father has one of his own, blots tears off the desk efficiently before beginning to replace what had been on it.

“The door is behind you.” 

“Thank you, sir.” This is not the time to linger. He bows. He leaves.

 

His rooms have extra handkerchiefs, have a pitcher of water and a basin for his use. He checks his hair in the mirror, rebraids a section, neatly. His rooms have a window. He can see the yard out through it. There is a tree near the center, and Ambarussa play some game around it, hiding behind it in turns and running out to circle it. He had chosen these rooms, asked for them, chosen this one.

And this is his charge, and he will not neglect it.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from [google definition results for 'charge'](https://www.google.com/search?rls=en&q=charge&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8).


End file.
